The Lady Series, Two Books for the Price of One

by Denise Domning

  A smile crept across Anne’s face. This was favor, indeed. Aye, and more than feasible, even with her mother’s infirmity. A term of duty lasted but four months, meaning she and Kit could dwell at Owls House for eight months. Then while Anne served the queen, her mother could take up residence in Kit’s London house with Mistress Godwin to bear her company.

  “Madame, I’d be honored to do so,” Anne replied. “Your Grace and this court has so dazzled my senses I fear I can never again be content with simple country life.”

  This compliment put even more warmth in Elizabeth’s smile. “As your mother is an invalid We’ll make ourselves available to aid in the planning of your wedding.”

  The affection Elizabeth showed Anne in this made guilt leap in her heart. She didn’t deserve the honor not when she knew the duke of Norfolk schemed behind Elizabeth’s back, but was too great a coward to share that information. The need to tell her queen what she knew overwhelmed Anne.

  “You are kind beyond my deserving, Madame” she said. “Against such generosity I feel I must speak to you of something that has troubled me.” As she paused, waiting for permission, Kit shot her a worried look.

  The queen’s brows rose in sharp surprise. “Speak, if you must.”

  “Madame,” Anne said, raising her head to look upon her monarch, “it comes to my ears that the duke of Norfolk has given the Scots queen a diamond against his pledge of marriage. I feel it only right that you should know.”

  A horrified gasp rolled over the courtiers. All color drained from Elizabeth’s face. Her eyes widened then her mouth twisted in something between rage and terror.

  “He’s done what?!” Elizabeth shrieked, and leapt to her feet. Grabbing the cushion from her chair, she threw it into the room. The chair toppled behind her.

  Courtiers scrambled. The earl of Leicester backed steadily from the room. Anne cringed.

  Elizabeth turned to look upon the higher of those who served her. Tears filled her eyes, while fury colored her cheeks bright red. Her hand was at her jeweled belt as if seeking a sword. When she found no weapon she tore the belt from her waist, and threw it at the window. It clattered against the thick glass then snaked to the ground.

  “Cowards!” she shouted at her courtiers. “How long have you known? Yet none but this maid has the courage to tell me! By God, I’ll separate all your heads from your necks for this,” she roared.

  Amyas touched Anne on the arm. “Come lass, you’ve wrought enough havoc for one day. It’s time for you and your new husband to leave.”

  Anne looked at Kit. He watched her, both awed and stunned by what she’d done. Then the corner of his mouth lifted and he reached for her hand. “God save me, but with you at my side I daresay it’ll never be a dull marriage.

  Now a note from me

  Thanks so much for reading this, the first of my two Elizabethan novels. If you liked this book (or even if you didn't, I suppose) please consider leaving a review.

  I thought I'd take a moment to let you know how this book came to be. You see, when I was young I kept remembering living a life in the court of Elizabeth the First. Sounds weird I know, but when you're five, six and seven, and having these memories you don't really realize it's unusual. But here's the really strange part: as much as I identified with that time period, I didn't have any interest in studying it. I was far more interested in ancient Egypt. So as time passed I let go of Elizabeth and her court and moved on to other things, like jobs, marriages, kids...you know, things.

  The kids came and the marriage went. So did another marriage. Then I met my present and forever husband, Ed. At the time I was writing my first novel, Winter's Heat. Ed couldn't believe I was writing about a country I'd never seen. He insisted on taking me to England so I could experience the place first-hand. During the trip we stopped into the church at Warwick. (Warwick one of those places in England where they stick extra letters into names to confuse Americans—it's "War-ick" not "War-wick"). I knew Robert Dudley, Elizabeth's favorite, was buried there but I was totally unprepared to come face-to-face with an effigy whose image I remembered seeing in all those weird memories from my childhood. I read her name in complete astonishment: Lettice Knowles, first the Viscountess of Hereford, then Robert Dudley's wife and finally the mother of the Earl of Essex, who would later become Elizabeth's ill-fated favorite.

  Talk about being rocked off my feet in surprise! After that I guess it was just a matter of time (and book contracts) before I got around to writing a book set in this time period. You'll notice I couldn't resist putting Lettice (myself?) in the background. I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have.

  This is a work of fiction; everyone in the book is created out of whole cloth (although I did my best to portray them and their times as accurately as possible).

  Lady in White

  copyright(©) Denise Domning 1998, 2011

  All right reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any way.

  Cover art and graphics by ADKdesigns.biz

  Over the years friends would ask why I didn't include psychic elements in my work. After all, ESP and ghosts are part of my everyday life. I told them I hadn't yet found a story where it made sense to include any of that. Then I started Lady in Waiting. The first thing Kit Hollier told me was that between Rannulf’s and Rowena’s lives in their Graistan Castle and the baronage's metamorphosis into the Elizabethan Graceton Castle, a tragedy had resulted in the new house acquiring a ghost.

  And, with that, Lady in White was born.

  I am so grateful to Audrey LaFehr for originally accepting this book, and Denise Marcil and Jennifer McCord for reincarnating it. Now, here it is one more time again.

  Cecily ran, the rhythmic beat of her bare feet and the steady pant of her breath echoing against the darkened trees. There was no moon, but she'd traveled this path so often in the night she could have raced along it without even starlight to guide her. Beneath her sleeveless bodice her shirt clung to her skin; her single skirt felt leaden around her legs. Past midnight, and still the air was heavy.

  As she rounded the massive bole of a tall oak an owl loosed its mournful cry then swept into the black sky on silent wings, passing almost in front of her. Startled, she nearly stumbled then fear washed over her. An owl call on this night of all others could only be an omen, a warning of death. Still Cecily ran, her heart driving her on even as her head pleaded with her to turn.

  The scents of manure and new-mown hay announced the village bounds. Within the embrace of the outlying fields, cottages were strewn helter-skelter. Every roof was gentle thatch, making them look more like haystacks than housing in the dark.

  Near the first house she slowed and closed a hand over her mouth to mask her rasping breath. What happened this night was trouble enough; there was no need to invite more by stirring the dogs and geese into sounding an alarm. At the village's end the church rose up, its tall, square tower cutting through the milky river of stars in the sky behind it. Past that sanctuary she went, drawn to the steady gurgle of tumbling water until she halted at the river’s edge.

  Stripped of color, willows trailed their silvered branches against the water's pewter skin. Starlight gray, the reeds along the banks whispered and sighed in the current. Across the water a massive wall rose up. Framed by two rounded towers its surface was blacker than the night except where glass pierced its stones. Glittering starlight poured through an empty arch in the wall’s stony blackness. Not only was the postern gate unlocked tonight, it was open.

  Her gaze flew away from that opening, across the wall’s length to find the windows she knew as well as her own. The panes were lifeless, no spark of a candle behind them. If he wasn’t in his chamber then he still waited for her.

  Her fear broke free of all control, rising like a wild thing in her throat. What he wanted was lunacy, sure to cost them both their lives. But even as she retreated a step her gaze shifted to the ebony thrust of the footbridge that spanned the water.

>   He’d already waited hours for her. She knew him. He would wait all the night long until dawn’s pink fingers drove him back into hiding. How could she leave him standing there without an answer, even if that answer was nay?

  Madwoman! her mind screamed. It wasn’t nay she’d say if she saw him. Once in his presence she wouldn’t have the strength to refuse him.

  Ah but just as she knew him, he knew her. The awareness that he stood alone in the night pulled her onto the bridge toward that open door.

  As she stepped onto the grassy bank on the other side, a breath of cold air sighed through the open postern gate. It pooled around her, tendrils snaking up her arms, feeling almost like fingers where it touched her flesh. A shiver shot up Cecily's spine. It was as if the air itself were trying to prevent her from entering. Unnerved, she sprang away from the coldness and dashed through the waiting gate.

  She flew into the quiet yard, not daring to look behind her, and sprinted across the soft sod. Past the darkened house with its long gallery she went, then beneath the great hall's glowering windows. It was the garden she wanted, or rather the square tower on its ancient mound that rose at the garden’s center.

  Near the garden wall the air came to life with a tangle of perfumes: roses, stock and pinks. She climbed the path through the garden toward the broken tower. A single candle's weak glow showed in one of the old keep’s tiny windows.

  Just as she knew he would, he was waiting for her in the darkened gateway to the tower. Cecily stopped just out of arm's reach. There wasn’t light enough to show her his features, but she knew he wasn’t masked. That cumbersome disguise was for those unfamiliar with his scars, never for her.

  His white shirt gleamed above his dark breeches. The night's heavy heat had stripped him of excess clothing, teasing him into leaving off his customary bulky robe and doublet. But without his robe not even starlight was dim enough to hide how thin he had become.

  Cecily stifled her quiet cry. She was losing him. Aye, and if she refused him tonight, she’d lose him even sooner.

  He held out his arms in invitation. She fell into his embrace, burying her head against his shoulder. There was only ever joy to be found in his arms. He pulled her closer still, resting his cheek against her uncovered hair. In that instant, with his heart beating against her, she forgot that what he wanted was insanity.

  “You came,” he murmured

  “You knew I would,” she returned, just as softly.

  “I had only a small hope,” he replied. She heard the smile that came to life in his voice. “You called me a mad idiot.”

  Cecily straightened in his arms until she could press her lips against the column of his neck. He drew a swift breath at her caress. She smiled against his skin. Even after all these years it astounded her that her touch could give him such pleasure.

  “It is madness,” she whispered against his throat, “and I do not like it at all.”

  Catching her chin in his hand, he raised her head so he could look into her face. She leaned her cheek against his palm, having long since forgotten to feel the rugged scarring that webbed it. If shadows softened his ravaged face, she didn’t see it. All she ever saw in his features was his love for her.

  “Like it or not, will you stand with me in the chapel of my ancestors and give me your vow?” he asked.

  His words reverberated in Cecily, waking both joy and fear. As much as she didn’t want to lose him to another, her certainty that they would both die if they did this filled her. Caught in the battle between the two, her tongue wouldn’t move.

  In the quiet that followed he released her to brush the back of his hand down her cheek. Tears started to her eyes with his touch. There wasn't flesh enough left to pad his bones.

  It was the feel of his hand that tilted her into a decision. If death was coming for him so soon, then he would be hers until the moment she had to bid him farewell.

  “I will,” she whispered, catching his hand to press a kiss to his knuckles.

  His laugh filled the heavy air around them. “One miracle out of two, Lord,” he cried quietly to the sky. “Not that I'm content with only this”, he warned his heavenly Father. “I want them both.”

  Reaching out, he caught her by the hand. Together, they strode into the garden, then on toward the old keep tower where his priest waited.

  Lady Arabella Purfoy wiped damp palms on her black skirt. Her husband was dead, her half-brother was on the Continent and her mother was nowhere to be found. And if that weren’t bad enough, a brief spate of illness on the road had made Belle days late for this unwanted and unexpected audience with England’s queen.

  Between her timid nature and what lingered of her illness, the thought of facing Elizabeth with no family member at her side was enough to make Belle’s head spin. Stopping in the center of Richmond Palace's outer courtyard, she pressed her fingers to her temples and willed the whirling to stop. Instead, the narrow brick and timber residences crammed against the walls around her began to careen in earnest.

  “Wait,” she called to the page escorting her from William Cecil’s office into the queen’s presence.

  Already well ahead of her across the courtyard, the lad, wearing the gray doublet and flat red cap of his station, turned. His eyes narrowed. “Sir William said we weren't to delay,” he chided then continued across the cobbled yard.

  Too intimidated to argue, Belle put her head down and followed as fast as she dared, praying she could hold tight to her senses. As the lad led her through the crowd of servants waiting on their betters before the Privy Garden’s gate Belle could feel their curious gazes on her. She didn’t look up until she stood directly behind the boy before the garden’s gate. Caught between Richmond's enclosing walls and one of the houses lining its outer courtyard the gate to the queen’s garden was surprisingly small.

  Like the page, the two of Elizabeth’s life guard at the opening wore scarlet and silver. At the wave of the boy’s hand the guards lifted their pikes. Belle followed him into the Privy Garden only to stop stock-still and stare.

  Caught between the walls and the onion-domed towers of Richmond's royal residence was a vast bower meant to please a woman's senses. Edged by stands of cypress, herbs and carefully pruned trees outlined masses of roses mounding over daisies. Showy peonies and orange lilies raised their heads above shy violets.

  Ah, but nothing of God's making could hold a candle to the dazzling creatures who strolled the pathways or lounged beneath gnarled crab apple trees. Silken doublets and satin bodices shone in the mid-morning sun, their colors as true as the sapphires, rubies and emeralds that studded them. Ribbons, their ends encased in golden tips, glinted from every sleeve, doublet and skirt. Why, even the musicians in the walkway’s far corner glimmered.

  Whatever grain of confidence Belle might yet have retained disintegrated as she looked down at her simple black mourning attire. The queen’s secretary had been wrong to think urgency more important than dress in this instance. No matter how fine the brocade or how rich her single golden pin, Belle’s clothing wasn’t fit for a royal audience.

  She took a backward step as the page returned with a man dressed in a doublet and breeches of bright blue silk trimmed with silver lace. They stopped before her, the man carrying a long white staff in his hand, that length of wood proclaiming him the queen’s usher.

  The usher eyed her from her headdress to her toes. His lip curled. “What is this? Cecil knows this isn’t Her Majesty’s day for public pleas,” he hissed to the lad who but shrugged. With a dismissing wave of his hand at Belle, the usher commanded, “Begone with you.”

  It was everything Belle wanted and all she knew she couldn’t have. There was nowhere for her to go, not until she had seen the queen. “Sir, I am Lady Purfoy come at royal command.”

  The usher's jaw dropped. Beside him, the page gawked in surprise. Ancient pain surged through Belle. So it was every time those who knew Lady Montmercy met her; Belle saw it in their faces, each of them wondering how
one of England's greatest beauties had managed to produce so plain a child.

  Collecting himself, the usher bowed to acknowledge Belle, or rather her rank as a knight's widow. “A thousand pardons, Lady Purfoy,” he said as he straightened, his tone yet tainted by surprise. He looked to the page. “Did you tell the guards at the gate?”

  The lad blinked and shifted nervously from foot to foot. “Tell them, Master Bowyer?”

  Master Bowyer nigh on threw up his hands in frustration. “Has Cecil lost his wits? Run lad, and tell Her Grace’s guards that Lady Purfoy has just come into the queen’s presence. They’ll know what to do.”

  As the page leapt to his new task the usher turned his back to Belle and faced the flower of England's gentry gathered in the bower. He slammed the base of his staff against the ground to herald an announcement, even though it made no sound at all as it struck the thick sod,

  “Lady Purfoy,” he shouted.

  All conversations halted in the garden. Fabric rustled and shoes scraped on gravel as men and women alike turned to stare at Belle in pointed interest. She flinched.

  The breeze lifted, turning the singing decorative vanes on Richmond's bulbous tower tops. As the quiet garden filled with their hollow moaning music, the crowd shifted, a corridor of sorts forming between their ranks. At its end stood England’s queen.

  Beneath her tall yellow hat, Elizabeth Tudor's long face was framed by fiery red curls held in place with jeweled pins. An airy ruff clung to her delicate jaw line. So thick was the golden handwork decorating her doublet that little could be seen of the garment’s white fabric. Strands of pearls, each pearl as big as Belle's little fingernail, looped to well past the royal waistline. Smaller gems picked out a whimsical pattern on the queen's green sleeves and matching outer skirt while tiny emeralds sparkled on the golden brocade of her underskirt.